A Cold Comfort
by Midnight Strike
Summary: It is no simple matter, safeguarding ordinary men from mages, and mages from themselves.
1. Opposition in all things

**Title:** A Cold Comfort  
**Characters:** Some characters from the game appear and obviously do not belong to me. Random mages and templars in Circle Tower are featured.  
**Pairings:** Mage/Templar. Mention of one sided Amell/Cullen.  
**Genre:** Tragedy/Angst  
**Summary:** It is no simple matter, safeguarding ordinary men from mages, and mages from themselves.  
**Rating: **PG for descriptions of death/violence.  
**A/N:** Inspired by a 'What if' conversation that occurred in the #swooping IRC. About why mages would choose to become tranquil, about what happened in the tower during Uldred, and about who survived. In which I prance about the Dragon Age world making a mess of everything.

_--_

_Opposition in all things:  
For earth, sky  
For winter, summer  
For darkness, Light.  
By My will alone is balance sundered  
And the world given new life.  
_

_- Threnodies_ 5:5.

--

"Your father lives in the grand estate," Mum used to tell you, pointing out the high towers and the ivy climbing towards the window. "He stands guard at the side of the Arl, and the servants called him Ser." There would be something breathless in her voice then, like the way you sound after you chased down one of the chickens for the night's supper.

She would only whisper this when there was none of the other village women around, and it was just you and her by the river, stepping on the trousers and skirts soaking with soap suds in water. Mum was a laundress for one of the banns of the village, and she made you promise not to tell anyone the story of your father - a knight in the service of the Arl. She said this was a secret, one that the Stewardess Tessa would not approve of, and you made a face then because the Stewardess was not a very nice woman and you had to smile at her and curtsey even though you wanted to throw a rotten apple at her head sometimes.

What was more important were the stories that Mum would tell about your father. You would ask questions like: Is he tall? _Very, and wears his armor well. He was the grandest knight in the tournament the year we met, all silver and shining. _What color are his eyes? _Honey brown, just like yours, luv. His hair is dark, a little red in the midday sun. _Does he love me? _Of course, who wouldn't love a bright little girl like you? _Why can't we see him, mum? _The Arl keeps him too busy, sweetling. _

She would get all quiet and a little hunched then, looking anywhere but at you. You wouldn't ask again, because the tiny little lines at the corner of her mouth dropped downward and there were spider webs in her eyes.

--

All you knew of knights was that they were good and kind and were honor bound by vows. They were protectors and saviors of the common people, your mum would tell you while you were wringing out a shirt or beating the suds out of a dress on the stones. Knights were strong and brave and fought in tournaments, like the annual tournament at the village. The tournament was accompanied by the village fair, and there would be bouts with cheering and there would be a great deal of commotion.

That year's fair you were seven. You wore your best dress and a matching green ribbon tied in your hair. There were so many people about that it was easy for a small thing like you to be pushed around, but you pushed back, ignoring the _Hey! _and the mumbled _Stupid brat_, to make your way through the marketplace. There were vendors with sweets and stalls with ribbons or shiny things that cost a copper or two. Mum handed you three whole coppers every fair, and you rubbed them smooth from your nervousness, tried to decide on a pastry or even a whole fruit.

You were too intent on your task and too short to see what was happening before it was almost upon you: the wagon pulled by two horses running wild. The hooves struck the dirt, thundering, and parted the crowd. You heard them coming before realizing it, the way the panic rippled through the people, and fear was almost a sharp smell – of sweat and metal. Someone's elbow struck your side, and suddenly your legs were tangled, you were falling, falling, into the path of the beasts screaming the way animals do when trapped.

You had one hand reaching out to catch your fall, and another arm outstretched, not knowing what to do, as if one hand spread in the air could ward you against deadly hooves. You felt a _tear_, like there was suddenly a solid shape in your hands, and you could twist it, grip it, will it to go –

Go where? What understanding that had entered your mind became wisps as your head struck the ground. You tasted dust and coppers on your tongue, but there was no pain of horses trampling your body, and all you felt was a wetness on your face. You realized it came from above you, steady drops of cold that you flinched from, as you gathered enough of your senses about you to sit up again.

What you saw made you scramble back, heels leaving tracks on the dirt. _Oh Maker – _the horses and wagon had frozen into a sculpture of blue and white. The legs of one were still kicked up in the air, stilled as it reared above you. The whole thing caught the sunlight and glittered like some precious gem, enormous, frightening, just a_ little_ beautiful –

In the distance, someone was screaming.

--

You were gathered up by strong arms encased in steel. The metal touched your face, and you forgot to struggle or to even move as you were lifted up. You looked up to see a face etched with deep lines, skin like leather that endured many years of sun. He had grey at his temples, but the rest of his hair was dark and curled.

"This child is now a ward of the Circle." His voice was not loud, but was carried through the crowd as it was murmured from one person to another.

"That is impossible!" Your mother's voice was familiar, and you craned your neck to see her. "She is my daughter!" She had her arms spread, like she was ready to fight, but there were villagers holding her back. One matronly looking woman was speaking to her in with a low, soft tone, and you could not hear what she was saying. _I do not understand, _you thought to yourself, but then your mother began to sob, and you must go to her. You were the only one who comforted her when she cried at Stewardess Tessa's harsh words, and she was the embrace you would go to when the blacksmith's son kicked you into the dirt or when the baker's daughter pulled your braids. You _must _go to her now and you wiggled, squirmed, tried to move out of the knight's grasp. His grip was too firm, and it _hurt – _

"Let me go," you whispered, then found your voice as you screamed louder. "Let me go!"

"I cannot, child." He started to walk away, and your mother, to your surprise, just crumpled to the ground, and stayed there, crying softly. The knight who carried you looked down at you as you tried to beat your way through his arms, fists struck hard armor and legs kicked uselessly at the air. There was pity on his face, like the arlessa's upturned nose when she passed through the village. Pity, but no compassion.

--

Knights took you away from the life that you knew. There was a lake, you remembered. A still, dark lake and a boat. You were brought across the water with two other children. There was a boy who wouldn't stop whimpering and a girl with a fierce expression, who crouched at the bottom of the boat, like she was ready to run at any moment.

But no moment came. An austere woman greeted them at the dock, her already light hair streaked with white and pulled back into a severe bun. Her robes reminded you of the ones that the Revered Mother wore, and she looked a little like the Revered Mother herself, because none of the servants of the Chantry carried themselves like this woman did, like the robes were a uniform and a blessing. Your memory fragmented as she introduced herself as Wynne, a Senior Enchanter of the Circle, and the three mages behind her were mentors for the new arrivals.

You were named a Inver, the girl Amell, and the boy Trissan. You knew then that you would not return to the village as the laundress' assistant, you would not go to next year's fair, and you would never lay eyes on the knight that was your father.


	2. Mage, meet Templar

_To you, my second-born, I grant this gift:  
In your heart shall burn  
An unquenchable flame  
All-consuming, and never satisfied.  
-Threnodies_ 5:7.

--

Knights were everywhere at the place you now live. Knights not as you imagined them, with great blades that were for slaying dragons. These knights, you were told, were to ward off the demons that could burst from you any moment, called forth by a dark and unbidden thought. That made the Templars a little scary to behold for a young girl; knights silent and unsmiling, holy warriors and pillars of moral righteousness ready to strike. You used to scuttle by them carrying your books, and the days passed into months, and months to years like time does until gradually they faded into the stone of the tower, and you forgot for a while that you were a daughter of a knight and a laundress' assistant, that you were now an Apprentice of the Circle, and that meant…well you weren't exactly sure what that meant, but you knew that Bigger Things awaited you somewhere.

There were lessons. Lessons and lectures and boring long speeches by the First Enchanter or the Knight-Commander. There were exhibitions of magic, called forth from the Fade, that place you went to in dreams. It made you feel _special,_ sometimes, knowing that you could command _Ice_, still your best talent, and now _Fire, Lightning. _You could heal cuts and weave glyphs to stop a man in his tracks. You learned the secrets of the greenery in the forest, how the brown and bitter elfroot could be folded into a poultice. Not that apprentices were ever allowed outside. The junior templars would come in with armfuls of shrubbery, some of the younger ones mumbling about how this was not befitting of a knight of the chantry, but then the Knight-Commander somehow always heard those mumbled words and would silence them with a _look _that was like_ Ice _in itself, magic or not.

Some of the braver apprentices would tease those templars standing guard, daring each other to make faces at them or do a dance in front of them. One or two bold apprentices would even _touch _them, and the knight would shift, the sound of metal against metal through the echoing hallway and the young mages would shriek and run back to their quarters. Sometimes you would even hear a chuckle or two coming from those helms, but you were never sure.

--

Life in the Circle may be many things, but it was not a lonely place for you. Not with the nights filled with secret whisperings, legs dangled over the higher bunk beds, being shushed by a templar passing by. Tumbling competitions down the circular halls during shift change and blowing dust at another apprentice's face to make them sneeze when you were supposed to be shelving old books. There were duels in stairwells (frowned upon), as you imitated the enchanters in their lessons, zapping each other with sparks or slipping and falling when you didn't notice the grease spot growing underneath your feet.

The templars even started to become _people_, recognized by a stain on their left glove or a dent in the armor at a certain place. You noticed when they passed by you, helms off, laughing and talking with each other, shoves here and there like the boy apprentices do, and sometimes with a jolt you realized that yes they _were_ people and not statues, and instead of warding off the demons growing inside of you they became warriors who stood guard over mages who slept and wandered the dangerous Fade, and they were a comforting presence, knowing that they were your protectors and that no nightmares would harm you…

Then you were sixteen and the newest recruits were _your age_ and that was a frightening concept even in itself. Some of the girls were already teasing the older boys, and some of who would scowl and the tips of their ears would turn pink. Others would wink and tease in return, and the girls would giggle, wink back. You really weren't sure what to do with these men. You weren't one of the bold ones after all, and you would much rather be in the library reading about old spells or scrambling up and down the tower stairs, and sometimes you wished that things just wouldn't _change_ and that you could be perhaps an apprentice _forever_, that there was not the Harrowing that started to enter the whispered late night conversations or rumors about those made Tranquil.

--

It was your eleventh year in the Circle and the recruits were now junior templars who got to boss around the younger, greener ones. The recruits looked at the apprentices like abominations were about to drop out of their robes. Those junior templars: Benedict had hair like straw and was the laziest when it came to polishing his armor, Cullen the stern faced one who wanted everyone to follow the rules. Raphael had the most disarming grin and the army of admirers, and Warin the tallest with the biggest ears. They were the ones who you got to know the best, who would help you grab the books you needed from the highest shelves or direct you running away from the Second Enchanter when you had a spell trailing from your fingertips in a place where no one was permitted to reach into the Fade. You would also hold your finger up to your lips if you just left a room where the Knight-Commander was and one of the templars was complaining a little _too _loudly about the Knight-Commander's many duties. They were boys really, not men, some of them with voices still undeepened or who would flush when one of the prettier mages walked by them, hips swaying like they knew what to do with those hips and with men. Not that you were able to tell what made men _men_ and what kept boys from becoming them.

--

The apprentices grew up and one by one they were taken away when they were ready, like it always was in the Circle. Tradition. The oldest ones went first, like they should, into the Harrowing Chamber, and some of them came out aged several seasons instead of only passing through that room for a night. Some of them didn't come out of the chamber at all. And others appeared weeks after their disappearance, eyes newly blanked and with the expression of the Tranquil. There was a restlessness among the apprentices that you grew up with, fear of who will be taken next and with whom will the First Enchanter Irving request an audience. Some were eager, others were terrified. There was also gossip floating about in the Tower, like you could brush your robes and come away with a tidbit or two about Reyna or _did you hear about Cullen?_

You walked by a new knight you didn't recognize one day in the hallway, and you sneaked glances at him as you walked past, almost tripping over your own robes. The other apprentices who were beside you stared openly, but the older knight was deep in conversation with one of the Senior Enchanters. _Grey Warden_ was the rumor that floated down the rows of desks in the classroom. There were plenty of rumors in the Tower lately, about apprentices who could be made Tranquil or the temptation of that frightening thing called Blood Magic_. _

Nobody _you _knew could be doing something so forbidden, you thought, and so you attended your lessons and took notes on vellum like a good mage, until one day the whispers fought with the bland voice of Senior Enchanter Phillipa, who threw up her hands in exasperation and left. You were free then to talk to Isemay, who said _she _heard from Pavia, that Jowan Thorel was a _Blood Mage_ and he was caught with one of the chantry girls, along with another mage who had already passed her Harrowing. All you heard was Amell and you remembered that bright eyed girl with a feral expression with you in the boat, limbs bent and ready to spring. She was a Grey Warden now, which was better than dead, you supposed, but you felt sadness for her for a moment.

There were things that mages shouldn't dabble in, you learned later as First Enchanter Irving called a meeting of all the mages in the Circle, apprentices included. These were dark times for Ferelden. The Blight was coming, and darkspawn could be on the banks of Lake Calenhad tomorrow morning for all we know. You knew that Cullen stood at her Harrowing, and you wondered if all the teasing was true about how he would stammer so around a certain mage, but you didn't have the heart to ask him whenever you passed him because his eyes were distant and shuttered like he was somewhere far away and unreachable. You had a restless dream that night, turning in your bunk, dreaming of the girl named Amell plucked from her pillow in the dark of night, caught in the jaws of one of your imagined darkspawn, and you screamed and screamed but no one heard your cries for help.


	3. And Templar, Mage

_Templars must carry out their duty with an emotional distance._

_It is this sense of ruthless piety that most frightens mages when they draw the templars' attention._

_-From _Patterns Within Form, _by Halden, First Enchanter of Starkhaven, 8:80 Blessed_

--

There was a grim feeling about the Tower after that meeting. More templars in front of each door, and more Disapproving Looks from the Knight-Commander whenever one of them took a misstep. Among the mages, there was also unease, and one day Enchanter Torinn wasn't there anymore, replaced by a sour faced Enchanter Sylva. The enchanters argued openly in the hallways, ignored mages and apprentices who hid around corners and in doorways, trying to listen in.

Senior Enchanter Uldred was everywhere these days, back from the doomed march of the king, where he served on the war council. He loomed over everyone, a constant reminder: _the darkspawn is coming. _Apprentices were plucked from their beds even in the deepest night, and there wasn't much being said about that, no explanation by the First Enchanter. But then one of your closest confidants, Pavia, was said to be a Blood Mage, and you wanted to protest when she was taken away by a group of Senior Enchanters and templars. Pavia was quick-tempered and spirited, but she could never dabble in the dark arts. She was a devout believer and was Enchanter Torrin's favorite student of the Histories. She shared her girlish dreams with you about the trysts she had with one of the older mages already passed his Harrowing, Thaon, who was fair and handsome. She desperately, desperately wanted to pass her own Harrowing, to join him finally as his equal and prove that she was not so young after all. You wanted to tell the Senior Enchanters all that, as you watched them read the charges over her lowered head. Benedict and Warin both met your eyes and theirs said _silence. _So you kept quiet even though your stomach was twisting and the remnants of supper churned, threatened to come up. Pavia sobbed and protested, even clung to her bunk like that would somehow prevent them from removing her. _Please, _she pleaded, _someone tell them I am not a maleficar! _

A quiet settled over the apprentice quarters after Pavia was taken, and then her mentor accused of leading the young apprentice down the dark path. The Harrowing still happened for young mages ready to take the next step, but it became a somber affair, not the cause of celebration when their chests were moved to the mages' quarters. _All the Grey Wardens died at Ostagar, _Uldred said, and you hoped that Amell's spirit was safe somewhere in the Fade, and there was some form of the Maker's blessing she did not have to see the terror that approached the mages in the Tower.

--

Warin stopped you in the hallway one evening, when you were prepared to nod and to glide past him in your robes. You were still heartsick from Pavia's leaving a few days prior, and you didn't want it to show on your face, lest the Senior Enchanters notice or even templars who were a constant reminder of what you could become. You were too startled by him actually barring your way forward to hide how you were feeling, how even the effort of keeping your head held high was a bit too much at times. What he must think of you, a mage alone, holding in your tears and wandering about the hallways avoiding inquisitive glances or cutting questions. You forgot, however, that templars were _always watching. _

"If I may…" he murmured, and you noticed how, funny, his ears didn't seem too big for his head anymore, and he must have _grown_ because the armor fit his shoulders quite well, not like he was playing in his father's old uniform.

"Yes?" You asked. He seemed to have forgotten to complete his sentence, and with a start you realized you were staring at him, thinking these thoughts, which were probably impure somehow because he is a _templar_ and you are a _mage. _You were very well aware of what you were and what he was and you understood what this meant for the two of you…

Or do you?

"Do not look quite so sad," he said. "I can't bear it."

For once, instead of keeping silent, a reply came to your tongue, before you even had time to think about the consequences, and what this would result in for you and him both, what you wanted it to mean, this very moment in the hushed twilight of the Circle Tower.

"You…care?"

"Of course!" He looked offended at the thought that you might even think otherwise. "I…" He then bit his tongue, aware he revealed too much beyond the mask that templars were supposed to wear. They were to be like the stone itself, unchanging, formidable, not a young face that was so earnest that you wondered how you once thought him serious or unemotional.

_Care._ The word hung between you, like you could pluck it from the air, shimmering and whole.

"Thank you," you said, and he smiled, a hesitant, slow smile that was _just like_ Warin, with his quietness and his maturity that made him different from the other templars, like he was older somehow even though his years numbered ten-and-eight with the others.

You parted ways, him to stand guard at the door to the apprentice quarters, and you to know that templars did watch, but was it such a terrible thing?

--

You covered a yawn with your hand as you left the library for your quarters. You were the last one to leave since you fell asleep in the corner of the stacks, and the librarian who was in charge of the night watch shook you awake, made you startle and drop the quill still clutched in your hand. You walked in the cavernous hallways of the tower, almost at your rooms, when a hand clamped over your mouth and there was a sound in your ear, whispering - _Pretty one if you scream I will hex you and then where will you be? _You knew this was one of the older mages, Bertran, with the slick oiled hair and the shiny black eyes. The one whose looks lingered a little too long and whose fingers always tapped whatever surface he passed, fingertip dragging against stone like he was _itching _to touch something or _someone_ underneath their robes…and where his fingers were inching slightly up your side, and you were absolutely _revolted_ at the thought. Apprentices and mages alike whispered of men and women and what they do together under the moonlight, in the stone alcoves with no watchful eye of templars or senior mages, stories overheard in conversation spoken or unspoken between those older mages, those who looked at each other with eyes that said – _tonight, tonight_. You understood, somehow, it was not supposed to be like this, with slimy Bertran whose breath was coming in panting gasps, and you felt something hot touch your _ear_. You bit down, tasted blood –

He yelped, the sound muffled in your hair, but someone heard because there were footsteps. Your heart leapt,you felt it almost enter your throat. Bertran cursed and held you closer, but you remembered to fight then, remembered that once you dared not struggle in the arms of a knight who carried you away from the only home you knew – Bertran was _not a knight_ and that made it easier to stomp down on his foot and to elbow him in the side so that all the air rushed out from him in an _oof_ and you were running and you were crying at the horror of it, into Warin's arms, the boy who thought of you when no one else saw how you felt about Pavia, whose voice spoke of reassurances, whose memory was tangled up with many emotions, all of them conflicting, and there was Bertran, caught at the end of the hallway, raised his arms and whispered a single _word. _

Then the world tipped on its side and the Veil ripped and Warin was caught with you on his arm and his sword and shield. You flew to the stone wall and landed awkwardly on your side, pain a rippling thing, almost alive and tearing out from under skin, but there was blood on your face and blood on your robes and blood, _Warin's _blood. _Andraste, prophet…_all you had left in you was a prayer. You were too shocked to even call forth your own spells, the most basic of which left you in a moment of panic.

The world _exploded_ and suddenly there was nothing left of the spell. It hung in tatters in the air, symbols winked out into nothing as the air was tinged blue green for a moment, before Warin's deep voice (when did it become so deep? A fleeting thought took shape in your mind, then was quickly silenced) cried: "_Maleficar!_" Then there was a rush and you watched as he moved faster than you thought possible, this boy with long limbs suddenly became _Templar_ and slammed a shield into Bertran's face. Bertran collapsed into a heap of robes, and there were too many people in the hallway, too many people trying to pull Warin back from putting his sword into the cowering mage.

There were apprentices with hands in your face and apprentices who watched the scene with great interest and then Warin was there, bringing you up into his arms, with determination on his face that told the apprentices who were looking at him with wide eyes – _this is my duty_, and Gerald, one the other templars that came at the noise led the way to the healing chamber while Raphael growled at the mage on the floor and the eyes of the mages that hurried past the two of you were decidedly unfriendly.

This was the second time you were carried by a knight, and if only you didn't feel so broken in certain places you dared to think that you _enjoy _this. And then you noticed that there were cuts all over Warin, that the blood that was hot and sticky all over you was probably mostly his. Your heart twisted at the thought of him hurt because of you, a silly, stupid apprentice who probably shouldn't have stayed a bit too long in the library…and before you knew it you were gathering a spell from what reserves you have left, closed your eyes, put your hand up on his arm and _pushed_ into him. It left you in a shiver, a tendril of power that would close the biggest wounds that he had and maybe ease some of his pain.

When you opened your eyes again he was looking down at you. There was concern on his face, in the set of his mouth and in the crinkles around his eyes that said _upset_ to you for some reason.

"You should worry about yourself, magelet," he said, and his breath tickled the top of your head.

Healing always left a peculiar taste in your mouth, but strange, you don't remember it tasting so sweet before.


	4. Harrowings

_It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing is more successful at inspiring a person to mischief as being told not to do something._

- From Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar.

--

Your Harrowing came and went. You woke up exhausted on the stone floor, shivering, and wondered if the demon that charged at you with red eyes and gaping mouth entered your body. You_ felt_ the same, just cold and tired and hopefully not meant for death. Knight-Commander Greagoir was the one who took your hand and made you stand. First Enchanter Irving said something or other that you couldn't quite understand at the moment. You assumed that everything went well because the First Enchanter, who was always kind to the apprentices, nodded at you after his speech with what you hoped was approval. He was the one who had a _talk _with you after what happened with Bertran, and you were comforted by his words, strengthened by his assurance that he would do everything in his power to ensure it would not happen again in the Circle, not to you or to any other young mage. You were reminded of that night less and less now, and sometimes you could even sleep without dreaming of _his_ face. Gerald, the templar that led you to the healers that night was the one who stood over your Harrowing. His grip on your shoulders was strong and sure, and you felt steadier when he helped you to the door.

Except he didn't lead you to the apprentice quarters, where you were supposed to gather up your old robes and take them to the Tranquil. He led you to an alcove that was at the end of one of many twisted stairways that seemed to lead nowhere. There was Warin and somehow you were crying from your exhaustion even if you were trying very hard to be brave, then Gerald was gone, and you were left alone with the templar who was looking at you with worry again. The worry made the tears trickle, then stop, and you sniffled, suddenly shy.

"You're alive," he breathed, like he couldn't believe it, and that was a bit too much emotion for you to bear. Tall and stoic Warin, who the young mages teased and said he was like the mirror image of Greagoir. Warin was looking at you like you were a precious thing, and he had a bit of pink at his cheeks, you realized. You thought he wasn't so stern looking after all, not with his hair that was flattened in one place by the helm that he wasn't wearing right now and the concern evident on his face. _That _Warin, who said he cared for you, and whose smile for you made you warm inside like you had just stepped too close to a fire.

Your memory conjured another time when his cheeks were pink, when he hovered over you as the Healer Ilaria set your arm and bandaged your wounds, and she snapped at him_ could you stop, really! Your little mage isn't dying anytime soon. _And oh, you heard a sudden roar in your ears: _your little mage…_then Warin's cheeks were pink and you were giggling all of a sudden, the pain not so sharp anymore.

You noticed him a lot more after that day, and your gaze brushed by his too often for you to count. Brushed by, then returned, and he was usually watching something else, a loose stone in the wall perhaps or a tapestry that had the stitched image of Andraste's betrayal. You would look down at a thread that had come unwound at the sleeve of your robe, and sometimes you heard him clearing his throat behind you when you passed him.

In the alcove and back inside your own body, you suddenly didn't know what to do with your hands when his caught your shoulders. You stared at your hands, thinking, _should I put them here or where…_when you realized that he was not wearing his gloves and his grasp was almost unbearably warm, burning through the fabric of your robes.

"I wanted to be there," he said, awkwardly, words slow and careful. "For your Harrowing, I mean, but the Knight-Commander chose Gerald."

You were so startled by his touch that you weren't sure what exactly he meant until you realized _what _he meant. Your thoughts were clumsy and slow and where he was touching you sent shivers and sparks through your skin and down your arms. You wanted to say something witty, but you couldn't, and you just turned your face up towards him so that you wouldn't have to look at your _hands _anymore. He was looking down at you, and it was easy to close your eyes as he pressed his lips to yours.

You tasted salt. Salt and Warin, whose lips were a lot softer than you would expect from a knight.

The thought of _Bertran_ flashed in your mind, and you squashed it, because this was not like Bertran at all and the kiss was light, just a touch of his lips to yours, and you understood all of a sudden, that it was like magic, a bit, and it wasn't just the melodramatic older girls making things up. There was something yearning inside of you, similar to the feeling of reaching into the Fade, like brushing by bits of the Veil…

He let go of you then and when you opened your eyes what greeted you was the growing look of horror on his face, which was not what you expected to see. You felt unsteady again. It was another sort of Harrowing, because you were reminded again that he was templar and you were mage.

He retreated to the stone seat where his helm was, and there was such a look of anguish on his face. Apology emanated from him, even though nothing was being said. And you knew that you were supposed to be upset about this, because this was _wrong_, said the Chantry and _wrong_, said the Enchanters, _wrong_, said the Knight-Commander.

"My first kiss," you said, a little stupidly, heat overwhelming your cheeks at that thought.

And his eyes snapped quickly to your face, his neck turned to quickly that you wondered if he was going to hurt himself. There was so much anguish there that you couldn't bear it, so you reached out and took his hand in yours, to send him calming thoughts, _it's going to be all right _thoughts. His fingers and palms were calloused from years of sword training, while yours were scarred from slipped spells with fire and lightning. He watched you take hold of his hand, and the tension eased from his body a bit.

"Thank you," you said, realizing you had thanked him before, that time he stopped you outside your quarters. "For being here…after my Harrowing, after what happened, before-" Was he always there, watching out for you, and you just failed to notice?

"It is _my_ duty," he uttered those words that you thought he already spoke wordlessly that day when he protected you from the blood mage, that extra emphasis on a certain word. He raised his other hand then, not the one you were holding, to brush the tears that were drying on your face away.

You didn't know knights with their hands made for war could be so gentle.

--

There were no more lessons. Apprentices and junior mages were told to keep to the library or to their quarters. You walked by Warin with your nervous fingers clutching at your books, and you could feel his gaze follow you as you walked down the hallway. Quietly and hopelessly and earnestly, you began to dream of what life together you might lead, even though there was no possibility of a life together for you, really. There was a bit of teasing since there were few secrets in the Tower, but nothing so blatant as pushing a young mage with a crush forward anymore, and one wrong word could mean a meeting with First Enchanter Uldred.

He wrote you notes. At first it was only a bare scrap of vellum containing two lines written by a disciplined hand. Words of concern, of affection, and emotions that neither of you dared to breach. It was easy to accidentally drop a slip of vellum in front of him when you passed with your regular stack of books. Or a boot nudged something in your direction. You only bent to adjust the hem of your robes and then your hand curled around it. You read the words and wished you could keep them close to you, tuck them into your robes against your skin, but a breath of a spell and his words were dust in your hands, etched in your mind.

There were touches of your hand to his here and there, kisses painfully sweet and painfully brief, exchanged in empty stairwells. Even with too many eyes and too many people asking questions, there were still lost corridors that were empty for a time. Isemay would sometimes keep watch for you, even though afterwards she would hit you and tease, _how was it? You daring girl! _There was not much to laugh at these days, so you would take what you were given.

--

After your Harrowing, many things changed. You were not with your young companions anymore, and the mage quarters still took some getting used to. You were reminded again with the other mages that you were children no longer, and shedding the robe of the apprentice-child also meant shedding your immaturity and donning the cloak of responsibility, as heavy as it may be to bear.

The rules rained down from the offices of the First Enchanters. _No_ fraternizing of templars and mages. _No _apprentices or junior mages in the stacks of the library unsupervised. _No_ unauthorized use of magic anywhere. _No_ junior mages in apprentices' quarters._ No_ lingering in the hallways.

_I think of you_ – the note began, and you selfishly thought that you were allowed some sort of pleasure, with the Blight and the darkness hanging over Fereldan. Who would begrudge the affection exchanged between just a mage and just a templar, unnoticed, unimportant…Wasn't love the greatest emotion the Maker had for his children? Even for mages, who were supposed to serve man?


	5. Turned

_Foul and corrupt are you__  
__Who have taken My gift__  
__And turned it against My children._

- Transfigurations 18:10

--

If only one of the older templars had discovered your affair, picked up one of your illicit notes one day and shook some sense into both of you. If only you or your knight was scolded by Cullen, who was usually all about the rules and rules, even more so after Amell left that one day with the grey warden. It might have eased, at least slightly, what you had to endure. If only, about many things, none of which transpired, for what mage and what templar would dare breach protocol and boundaries, not in dark times like these. _Only mages who were too stupid to care about consequences. _

The templars were solemn at their posts, silent and aware. Their hands snapped quickly to the hilts at their side, and their armor had never been so carefully polished and readied for battle. Once, some of the younger recruits complained that nothing ever _happened _at the Circle Tower, that it was a dead place, and why couldn't they be out there _fighting _against _darkspawn_. Those recruits were swiftly disposed of. Nobody knew whether they were dispatched back to the Chantry or some even said they were drowned in Lake Calenhad, _made an example of. _

And then it happened.

--

The first violent quake occurred when you sat in your quarters, like you were supposed to, like the _good little mage_ you appeared to be. There were screams, and one rose unbidden from your throat, only to come out as a gasp when the next wave of the quake rolled the ground underneath your feet again. You were somehow standing on the stone floor in the doorway and you couldn't remember how you got there. Templars came into the room, _Warin _you thought but it wasn't him, and those templars ushered the mages into the hallway.

There was a roar from above, one that seemed to reverberate through the old stones and chilled you with horror, the mere sound of whatever creature it originated from. The heads of the templars rose, as if they heard something in that roar the mages did not.

Your goal was to reach the door that you knew led downstairs, that_ outside _was where you were supposed to be. The rush of the mages was in every direction, some were crying and some panicked, ran senseless. You paused then, _remembered,_ because you knew _Warin_ was somewhere on this floor, that at this time his shift was to guard the hallway of the mage quarters one doors down from yours. As if by sheer force of your thoughts and your calling, he was there beside you, sword drawn, and you almost sobbed in relief, except there wasn't _time_ to think or to say anything, because he was a warrior-templar with steel in his eyes and he was pushing you towards the exit.

--

The abominations appeared, one by one. Lessons did not prepare you for what mages could become. There would be a mage there one moment, and then he was retching the next, dark tendrils coming out of his mouth and he was wrapped up with them, became a twisted, horrible_ thing_. You saw Benedict being _picked up _by one of them, and then you realized that the knight's head rolled strangely on his neck, and that there were claws that extended beyond the templar's body. There was no time to dwell on that because you were pulled backwards, and hot blood and gore splattered your face and your hair as a mage's head was severed from his body. It could have been you, easily. You saw spells flying every which way, chaotic, striking mages and templars alike or sometimes their intended targets.

You were so _weak_, just a junior mage, with no control or training, told again and again you were weak-willed and easily crushed by strong minds and strong desires. What experience did you have? Only a romp in the Fade, and that was not as frightening as the Tower burning and the Veil mere shreds around you. The uncertainty beat inside you, a drum chant of _not good enough, little mage_. You swallowed that uncertainty as best as you could, told yourself to keep running, keep moving, be alert and aware. You had Warin's hand on your back, his shield covering both of you as best as he could. You had to keep one foot in front of another, to dodge and side step as best as you could, basic instincts aiding you, because you cannot die and disappoint him, can you? Not when there was so much at stake, your life being one, and your heart there beating beside you, another. There was no thought for vows or loyalties, there were Bigger Things at hand, like being ripped apart by one of the mages who was once your friend or your teacher.

There was still flames and lightning and a taste of frost in the air, and you saw that there were bodies everywhere, strewn about. There were bodies fallen over the stones and trampled. There were bodies in the doorways of each room that they passed. There was Warin cutting down anything in their path, each shape more terrifying than the other. You, behind him trying to help in any which way, not to be that_ little mage_ anymore, because that was what Bertran thought of you, _easy to threaten and silence_, what the Senior Enchanters thought of you, _mages easily corrupted by the Outside_, what the templars thought of you _a menace, a threat. _

But Warin protected you, even if the demons could rise up from you any moment, he didn't falter in his guard. You fought beside each other, then back to back, as the demons came, and the mages went mad with fear and the templars too. You stepped over charred bodies, bodies still twitching or pulsing lifeblood into the stones. You saw death and destruction, beside your knight, who was your protector, your guardian, and you warded him as best as you could, because damn the Maker you found him in spite of everything…

Then there was Wynne, who has a hold of your robes, who was telling you _pull yourself together, child_! And who was looking at Warin, who looked down at you, with an expression on his face that said too much and not enough. In front of the _Senior Enchanter_ he reached down and brushed his lips against your forehead and you said – _you can't go_. There was that curve in his mouth again, the one that said _duty, above all else. _

_Love_, he began, but then closed his mouth again. His brothers were calling him and even _you_ were not enough to keep him here. It was Wynne who was pulling you back, when he returned to the danger, the madness, mages engulfed in black smoke and fire.


	6. Make me to rest

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places._

- Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1

_--_

You wanted to collapse to your knees and pray. You would utter the Chant of Light and spread it to all corners of the known world and beyond, to those kingdoms that did not know the Maker. You would become a chantry sister; you would devote yourself to His service if He only kept Warin safe. _Your _templar, the one whose hands had captured your face and whose lips gave you the most tender kisses, the one who you never told, not in spoken word or in script, of your love…

It did not occur to you at that moment that mages were not allowed to devote themselves to the Chantry. Mages were kept in their Towers, kept by blade and fear of what they could become.

"I cannot offer you any comfort." Wynne had pulled you up, showing surprising strength for that slender body. "But you must make yourself useful."

There was no time to dwell on that even if your heart was a scared thing running around in your chest. You were given charge of three frightened and shaken looking apprentices. You watched as if from a great distance, your fingers still calling forth spells and your tongue able to mumble several incantations. Your mind was somewhere in _there, _past the great doors, and you debated with yourself, should you go in? Could you brave those monsters and your friends turning, templars falling…but Wynne sealed the doors before you could gather the courage to rush forward, daring anything, _my life, my spirit_. The enchanter sighed with the effort, fatigue clear in her slightly shaken form. One of the apprentices was barely able to lower her to the ground, body unsteady from her exertions.

--

There was nothing more to do but wait.

Some of the children rocked, clung to each other or clutched their own bodies tightly. There were prayers and sobs, occasionally silence. You wondered when Wynne would comment on what she saw between you and Warin, and when she did it was sometime between abominations, when it was as quiet as it was going to be in the hall.

Wynne's voice was not unkind in the moment of stillness, and she spoke words that were meant to be a comfort but that grated at your frayed nerves. "You're still young, mage," she said, "and if you would heed the words of one who has seen the world longer than you, believe me…"

"The templars, they watch over us and keep us safe, but we _must not_ forget their purpose," she continued. "They are knights of the chantry, not the bed warmer of a mage, however wonderful that experience may be."

You may have flushed once at that or gulped like you were a child caught thieving from the chantry coffers. Except today you watched your friends die and everyone you knew slaughtered. You saw the emptying of life from stilled bodies, convulsions of the last breaths drawn. You saw a battlefield and you watched your love walk back without stopping him.

"Warin and I never…" You still couldn't stop that slight hitch in your speech, however. "We never embraced in such a way."

"It's not the act itself I speak of," the enchanter shook her head. "But you did wish that he would watch over you in the long hours of the night, to protect you from the abominations that threaten each and every of us, child mage or not. There is a fragile trust between a mage and templar, is there not that?"

You looked at her then, _really _searched her face for whatever wisdom was hidden there, not drawing half from your memory of the first mage who welcomed you at the docks of the tower. She was not so old looking after all, to the eyes of one nine-and-ten than a mere seven. She seemed to know what you were thinking, because she chuckled.

"I was young once as well, and the templars have their strength and are easy to look at, if you like the warrior sort."

You wanted to ask about what happened between her and a templar, once, because you could almost see it. She was speaking from experience, you thought. Which templar and how and _why_ – when the fiery abomination announced itself with a flash and a deafening roar. There were staffs out and spells to make sense of, and when the fight was over there was Amell standing there, her own staff in hand, looking more menacing than you remembered, clad in…was that armor?

It was your chance then, to stand forward, to petition that you be allowed to enter the Tower with Wynne, because you couldn't bear it, this waiting. But you were too young and too weak and brushed aside. It was decided then who would enter: Amell and the other Grey Warden, both of them sporting armor already beaten and battered from many battles, an archer with braided hair who looked almost too pretty to be a fighter, and Wynne, who would contribute her knowledge of the healing arts. Amell, who didn't even recognize you, older and even more fierce than you remembered. You were left behind at the doorway, with the three apprentices and the handful of children, a precious burden, but not the one that you wanted at this moment to be fighting for.

--

First Enchanter Irving led the way out of the Tower, an unknown amount of time later. Your throat was parched from murmuring what comforting words you could offer to the hungry and thirsty children. It was a more ragged looking group that left the Tower than when they entered. There were a few mages that trailed behind the First Enchanter, all of them Senior Enchanters, who looked _older_ than imaginable, like they should not even be drawing breath at this moment. The Grey Wardens, the archer, and _Wynne…_you saw no one else as you rushed to her, hopeful, for any news…She shook her head, and you weren't sure if it meant _not now _or the _other_ possibility that you dared not even contemplate.

Knight-Commander Greagoir was outside the door that trapped you and all other mages in the hall. You knew that Warin was not there, yet it did not stop you from searching the rows of the templars for a familiar face. There was tension in the air, as taut as a bow pulled tight, and you knew that it was something to do with the Rite of Annulment that the Wardens spoke of, although you didn't know exactly what that meant. First Enchanter Irving had started to open his mouth to greet the Knight-Commander, when you were suddenly grabbed from behind.

You spun around violently, not of your own will, and those hands shifted quickly from your arms to your neck, became steel cords. You stood face to face with _Cullen_, who looked furious, his face mottled red and hair standing up like a crazed man.

"You – you _temptress_," he spat out. Spittle hit your face, made you flinch and blink. "Demons, all of you, _mages._" He denounced the last word like a curse and his grip grew even tighter. You couldn't breathe, and it was fire burning your throat. There were stars in your vision, white spots that speckled his face, and you wondered dimly why nobody was doing anything, why those templar faces were so impassive and _nobody was doing anything. _

It took the grey warden knight and Wynne to remove Cullen's hands around your throat. You wheezed, hands going automatically to where you were hurt, and sank downwards, your knees unable to hold you. You would never forget the way Cullen looked at you. _Cullen_, who was not quite a friend, but someone you _knew_, who you grew up with and once teased or laughed with. He threw off the hands of the grey warden and began to petition the Knight-Commander, earnestly, reverently, with the passion of a zealot or a chanter, for _your_ death, for _all _your deaths.

He pointed a gloved finger at your face, and said, "Warin, ser. Warin saw a demon wearing her face, although I warned him it was _not_ her, that she was probably dead already, but he did not believe. His faith was corrupt, corrupted by _her. _The mages and all of their blood magics, seductresses…"

You heard dimly that he continued to speak, except you couldn't really make out what he was saying, only that Warin saw you in the battle and the fires, Warin saw a demon with your face, and he went to her.

"…thieving mages who take your heart and trample upon them and eat and devour you..."

"He is lyrium starved." You heard First Enchanter Irving behind you.

"…They are not to be trusted, maleficars all. The Circle is broken, has been broken a long time…"

Even with your fear of the Knight-Commander, the punishment of the First Enchanter, the strangers around you, and Cullen who had just attempted to take your life. You had to know. You cast off Petra's touch, who was attempting to heal the wound at your throat, and you went to Cullen, your voice hoarse.

"What of Warin? You said you saw him in the tower, what did you see?"

Cullen's face turned towards you, expression still half crazed and hateful, as if he couldn't wait to rip you apart with his bare hands. You knew the rumors of what the blood mages could do to you: charm a person and will their hands to commit the deepest sins. Who wouldn't go mad under that strain?

"Dead," Cullen moaned, now rocking back and forth on his heels. A grown man, sobbing and broken. "Warin. Gerald. Raphael. Dead…dead…dead…"

_Benedict. _You added to the list of names. _Ada. Brigit. Ilaria. Samson…_Their faces crying or screaming or emptied of what spirit they used to contain. Their bodies ripped apart or trampled or limbs severed or battered being recognition, except for an amulet held in hand or color of hair.

You felt despair inside of you, bleak and spreading, not so unlike death in its own way. It blackened what small hope you had of finding your love alive and safe, following the Grey Wardens to your arms.


	7. What remains

_Demons are drawn to mages, though whether it is because of this awareness or simply by virtue of their magical power in our world is unknown._

--

You still lived after the Grey Warden Amell sided with the mages against the Knight-Commander's insistence that all mages be put to the blade. _The Circle is not lost._ She was of firm belief in this matter, and you thought that she may have looked at you briefly when she stated this, although it may have been a trick of the light.

The templars bury their own. You were responsible for identifying what bodies you could from the apprentice quarters. The vellum that you kept in your robe had bloody fingerprints along the edges, and wet spots where tears fell or ink smeared because of your unsteady hand. Isemay had made her way to the apprentice quarters but was unable to leave; she had crawled underneath a bed to her final rest. Bern was struck down in front of the wardrobe, nails splintering the wood when he attempted to hold himself up as he fell. The templars bury their own and you did not know what happened to Warin's body or if there was much of a body left to bury. You did not want to know for what use was a body to you, to weep over. You had wept many times over the amount you thought you were capable of.

The stairs to the fourth level of the Tower were sealed. The templars' quarters were beyond repair, they said, and for now the templars took their place in what used to belong to the senior mages. The mages resided now in the apprentice quarters, children, junior and senior mages alike. The broken furniture and bodies were burned outside in a funeral pyre that smoked at the banks of Lake Calenhad for two weeks. When the debris was cleared, the children were set in the rooms to scrub with soap and water. There were some blackened scorch marks that were impossible to remove in the corners of some rooms, and patches or stains remained here and there still reminded you – _a battle was fought here._

The scent of smoke and death lingered long after the pyre was extinguished.

And you wandered in the evenings, all alone, in the near empty Tower. The Fade has many secrets.

--

You felt, rather than saw, the desire demon approach before you laid eyes on her. She moved with grace and languid purpose, sight set on you. You felt the sharp purpose of those wide eyes, the blade's edge focus, more complete than the other demons who attempted to snare you with their threats or their rage. Those were easy to ignore. This demon, however, had other methods of persuasion, each more ensnaring than the last. You had to be careful of this one, you knew. The demon's curves were voluptuous, lush thighs tapered down to smooth calves, legs ended at cloven hooves. Wicked sharp horns curved from her head, and she floated towards you backed by the dark tangled roads of the Fade, leaving a trail of violet sparks behind her. You were dreaming and it was not the first time you dreamed her.

"Heart broken little mage," she cooed. Her voice was the sparkle of streams, the soothing music of lullabies.

She was barely clad in gold, loops upon loops of it, draped around her figure. Her body was lithe, and she rippled in serpentine dance even when she remained in one place. Her fingers were long, reaching, beckoning, palm up and extended in welcome.

"Little mage, little mage…" she laughed and it sounded like the tinkle of bells. "Of what do you dream?"

You could not speak. You willed it so. There was no bargaining with a demon. That path only leads to ruin…but you could not take your eyes off her. She was evil, evil and beautiful and otherworldy. She offered you things that others could not.

"Something that tastes so sweet…" Her smile contained hunger, eyes glinting with the knowledge that she gleamed from your resistant mind. You _hated_ yourself, for giving it up so easily, each night, each and _every_ night. She then began to spin, sending streaks of violet across your vision, until you were dizzy with the movement of it.

Then you were back in the Tower, in your own bed. You struggled, under the heavy blankets. It was winter, a season of damp stones and a chill that you could never be rid of. But was it? Your memories were elusive, creature like things that scuttled out of reach. You should sit up, you decided, and you did, but then a shadow fell over you where a form blocked the doorway.

Whoever it was wore armor. You were in the mages' quarters again, you thought dimly, _strange…_The form approached and you felt the slow thud, thud of your pulse fill your head. You dreamed of this before, demon knights who had only darkness in their helms and two red slashes where eyes should be. Nightmares sent from the Fade, and you sucked in a breath to scream.

"No," the form quickly closed the distance between you, one hand clapped on your open mouth. Warm skin. "It is only I."

It was Warin. You relaxed easily, and assured that you would not give him away, he let go of you.

"Why are you here?" You kept your voice low, but turned your head left and right to ensure that you were indeed alone in the room. Why the room was empty of mages, you were uncertain.

"They're all at the feast," as if he heard your thought, he told you. "One moment." He went to the door and shut it closed, so that the only light in the room were the slivers that peeked through the cracks. You left the bed and stood on your feet when he moved back to you, his warrior's training evident in that he made barely a sound.

It was only you and a templar in the hushed shadows of the room. His face was sharp planes and you could only see the bare perception of the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. You did not think to question why he has shut you in with him in an empty room. You did not think because you were tired of thinking, of being ever careful of footsteps on stone or whispers of robes brushing by the walls.

You were folded against him, his hands always careful to draw you close gently so that you would not hurt yourself on the hard metal that encased his body. He kissed you and you kissed him in return. His kiss was a searching question and yours an answer. You just wanted to touch him, drink him in with your fingers against the roughness at his jaw, the softness of his hair. _I missed you_, was the thought that bubbled up inside.

There were straps to unfasten, a breastplate to remove, greaves to put aside. You felt a little undone yourself when he lowered you back onto the bed, one hand cradling your head so that you would not fall. His arms were rippled muscle underneath your hands. You felt the muscle flex and you grinned under his lips, despite yourself, even with his breath skimming deliciously against your neck. You did not want this to end, not _ever, _to remain tangled together, your knight whispering softly in your ear: _Do I please you, love? _

It was the _love_ that got you, when you remembered. He has only said it once. The room dissolved around you, yet you could still feel the press of his body against yours. You flung yourself away with a cry that faltered and fell to a sob. You could taste him, feel him, how real he was, his skin to yours. What you had lost.

--

There was not much left of this place. Old stones and what used to be a home for hundreds of mages. You saw their ghosts sometimes, and you wondered if you were driven lyrium mad like the templars, but you made no mention of it to any of the enchanters. What use was it knowing whether you were sane or not. The Tower took something away from you and nothing could bring it back.

You saw Cullen once, close-up, in the hallway after he was released from the basement, where they kept him chained in order to prevent him from hurting himself. He had lost a great amount of weight and his skin had a yellow pallor, but his eyes burned bright as if he was fevered. You had flinched from him when you saw him, recalling those hands at your throat. Your worry was for nothing, because he didn't seem to recognize you. After Amell spoke for the mages, he silenced himself in front of the Knight-Commander. There were no more words from him about mages, evil or otherwise.

Everyone entered the Great Hall for meals. Where the tables used to stretch endlessly there were now only ten. Seven for the templars, three for mages. The templars did not speak to the mages. Mages did not speak to each other. Food tasted like nothing to you, all bitter and flavorless. You ate enough for sustain yourself, so that you were able to get up each morning and attempt to sort what books could be salvaged and what was permanently gone. The stench of charred vellum settled into your robes, on your skin, so that you could not even scrub it off in the bath.

You were a mage covered in cinders. You thought it appropriate.


	8. What you dream

_And there I saw the Black City,  
Its towers forever stain'd,  
Its gates forever shut.  
Heaven has been filled with silence,  
I knew then,  
And cross'd my heart with shame._

- Canticle of Andraste 1:11

--

Petra attempted to talk to you once about your feelings regarding the devastation the Circle saw. _I also had friends die before me, do not forget. You are not the only one who suffers. _You were uninterested. You survived and others did not. She was angry at you, you could tell, afterwards, by the way she spun away from you and hurried towards the other side of the room.

You cannot befriend the mages, because they do not know what corruption you carry. They do not know that you _dream_ all sorts of betrayal. You would give them all, for one chance to open that door which Wynne closed, to run after your knight and join him in the destruction. How many times did you wake up sobbing, yelling at him that you are not her, and that the demon's face was not yours?

The children did not fare well. Two of the apprentices that they found still alive in the Tower after the carnage were struck mute. Three of the ones that you took care of during the battle had stopped speaking as well. One would not eat and wasted away. Another mage hanged himself from the library stacks. One convulsed when she fell from the table at supper and had to be struck down by a templar before she changed.

Irving gave orders directly to all remaining mages. He was not First Enchanter Irving anymore, just Irving, because blood and fire has cleansed them all of petty titles and order. Children, apprentice, junior mage or not, each and every one of you underwent training for war. For much of the day you learned how to call forth tempests and blizzards in the great hall, while templars watched from the walls with steady hands on their swords. _We each may be called to face the Blight, _Irving said gravely, _and we must be prepared. _Templars and mages had an uneasy truce for one hour every day, where templars taught defensive maneuvers in combat. You learned to roll this way and that to dodge attacks. You learned how to fall properly, to catch your weight with a slap of your hand on the stones. Some of the templars protested at the necessity of this, but the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter agreed. It was not a time, with our numbers so few, to not teach us at least how to defend ourselves.

--

_Little mage, little mage…_she chuckled, the sound like the richest fabric rubbed against the skin. _I can offer you what you dream. _

Warin's body was firm and muscled, the heat emanating from him threatened to overwhelm you, made your head muddled and unclear. Your fantasy, your reality, what caresses you dreamed up, kisses with tongue and wet, like your body became, your limbs twisted in damp sheets, and those _visions_. He was all over you and inside of you and around you, until you weren't sure if you existed or if you were only the sound of his heartbeat, melded to him so that you were inseparable. You wanted, you craved, and you took.

--

And so time in the Circle passed.

There were lessons about maleficars and the powers they possessed. You learned glyphs of warding, how to call wisps from the Fade to aid you in battle. Your spells came with greater ease, your footing sure, when you maneuvered a difficult spell with your fingers. Irving's approval radiated warmly upon you when you did something right, and you thought that _maybe_ by trying hard enough, with your flesh and bone and whatever threads holding together your body, you _could _overcome Desire, overcome Warin who was haunting you in your bed, in the library, wherever you were alone and weak.

You kept yourself away from the templars. They were all young, newly assigned to the Circle. The realm was not only short on mages, it seemed, but also templars to watch them. Cullen was the only surviving one in the Tower who did not break, to bear the shame of his brothers. His presence was a rare thing on the floor where you resided. You heard he chose to stay alone in his private chambers that he gained when he became the right hand of the Knight-Commander. You listened to the gossip about what happened to Cullen and how the mages trapped him in a prison without walls, paraded demons in front of him, demons and Amell. You even listened to the templars' lessons about the mages, when you lingered a little bit in the great hall during your duties. _Force of mind and will, _you heard, _build this: a mental fortress, stone by stone, sealed by your faith, that no magic could pry open. Fill your mouths with prayer, for the holy flames will quench your thirst, and you will strike down the abominations. _

Oh the lessons you learned…

You were the abomination they speak of. You do not tell anyone of the promises the demons make to you in the darkest of nights, their gentle whisperings. You do not tell anyone that you see Warin, smiling at you, extending his hand to you in the Fade, and that each morn in the pale dawn, you wish you had taken it.

--

You attempted to bury yourself in the arcane arts, so that you wouldn't hear her dread whisperings from the stones of the tower. Warin beckoned from just around the corner, as if a few more steps was all it took and he would be there, his grip sure and strong in yours. _Can't you see me waiting here for you?_ Your visions, your burden, to be a good mage and say _no, I do not see you_ even if most days you wanted to fall to your knees and embrace him.

Yes, you began to realize, you'd much rather be crazed if it meant you were able to keep him closer to you for one more moment. Your fingers desperately grasping air, you were torn gasping from the Fade several times a night, trying to keep your wits about you, unsure if it was a conjuration of your own imagination or those of Desire.

_Set me free_, sometimes you gasped, when you felt like you would drown from his touch. _Please. _And you yourself was uncertain if it was an invitation for him to unrobe you or to release you from his memory. You thought, but the thought was fleeting, quickly discarded as impossible, that maybe if you were to lose yourself in someone else's touch, you would be safe from his ghost a little while.

--

_Why do you resist? _She coaxed all of your dreams from you, one by one, all of those things you thought you lost or had buried somewhere. Snippets of yearning, of selfish wants, like a warrior-knight who would lift you up and call you daughter, a templar-knight to soothe your nightmares and guard you while you sleep. What you wanted, she gave, and you greedily wanted more. _Haven't I proven myself to you enough? _She laughed. _When will you join me? _

--

You were brought back to him, or he to you, again, again. He danced with you in your quarters where there were too few mages to watch you, where templars rarely entered. He held your hand when you rifled through the library stacks or made sure the ladder was sure under your feet. Were you half in the Fade and half out of it? Does that make you half spirit too?

The templars were always watching, but they weren't watching close enough. At least not at this mage who wandered the tower with ghosts in her eyes and demons trailing her footsteps. Desire was there smiling at you from the top of the library stacks, violet wisps winding up her long, long legs. Warin visited you each night, without fail, until your lips were swollen with kisses and when you woke your arms were empty and you _ached_ with the longing of it.

Your knight was dead. You chanted to yourself. Dead.

_But she could bring him back. She promised. _

--

It was not one of the new templars who noticed, for all they saw was yet another mage, running scared in the emptied tower. You could almost hear their thoughts, approval for your fear, _you should be afraid, little mage. _Or was it Desire speaking? You heard her all the time now.

You sat there in the library by the fire, head resting on Warin's shoulder. His fingers idly wound your hair, again and again. You had a book open in your lap, but the words were lost to you. When he was around, you couldn't _think_ anymore, couldn't remember the incantations or the histories, couldn't remember much but the need for him, to keep him with you for longer, just a bit more…

When Cullen spoke behind you, you jumped so high that the book slid from your lap to the floor, dangerously close to the fire. You were busy stomping out the sparks and rescuing the book from certain harm before you were able to face him, noticing that Warin was gone, heart hurting but thankful. _Another templar, naughty mage…_was the whisper that Desire breathed into your ear before she was gone.

"I'm sorry." You ducked your head. "What was it you wished of me?"

Cullen was older now, with a set to his jaw that wasn't there before. There was no hint of the mumbling templar he once was. His gaze was so deep you thought that he could cut you open from the inside before you could even take a breath, and you felt the shadow of a squeeze around your throat.

"I thought you were half asleep," he said. "It would not look good for a mage to fall head first and light herself on fire."

_I didn't think you cared,_ the thought rose quickly, and you smothered it like you extinguished the sparks. You only stared back at him, waiting, for further instruction or for him to elaborate. He came closer to you then, to stand by the fire, eyes reflecting the flicker of the flames. He wore a beard now, and wore it well, because it matched the shadows on his face and the frown that was permanently creased on his forehead. It made him look…ominous, or maybe it was just that pattern of the way the light played across his face.

"No, we wouldn't want another mage to be lost," His mouth curled into a hard curve, half scowl, half something else. "Not when there are so few of you in Fereldan." You were afraid of him then, with his eyes that cut, made you feel like all of your secrets were spilled before him. _The only templar left standing in the Circle Tower. _

"You beg sometimes," he continued. "You plead, and you bargain…with all of your lures…your traps..." You weren't sure if he was speaking to you anymore, when suddenly he was in front of you again, and you didn't know how he could possibly be so _fast_, with his hands gripping your arms and he was _strong_, you could feel it. He would be able to break every bone in your body without a concern, and he would just as swiftly dash you to the stones if you reached for your magic.

"I have not said anything to you, Cullen," you said softly, even though the fear was a pulsing thing, those creatures that made up all of your base emotions, just crouched in the corners, shaking. "Not for a time." _Not when you tried to kill me last. _

"Tell me why!" He hissed, "Tell me why I shouldn't throw you into the fire. To _cleanse_ you, mage…"

You felt the hold on your arms change, shift, and his grasp meant that he was going to _throw_ you, and you were going to be burnt up, robes and all, show yourself for what you were, _an abomination, a danger, a fool…_


	9. See me kneel

_O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me  
Stand only in places You have blessed  
Sing only the words You place in my throat  
_

- Canticle of Transfigurations 12:2

--

And then his lips were upon yours in a sob. You were pulled to him tightly, your upper body pressed up against him, bruising, bound by the sheer force of his strength. You shuddered at the breach, the walls that you built between you and everyone else, crumbled at the invasive touch. It was nothing like the kisses you knew before, real or in dreams. This was a tearing thing, all desperation and wanting, like it would rip your spirit from inside, turn you _now_ with the demon whispers building up inside of your mind, the pressure and the insistence, telling you, screaming at you to_ give in before it's too late and he takes you on the stones in front of the fire_…

But he doesn't. It ended just in time. Your breathing was ragged and his was the same. He let you go, and you stumbled back, knowing you should run or scream or do _something_. The screeches of the demons were a ringing cacophony in your head. Instead you face him and the two of you look at each other, like two wolves circling. There was a steady pulse at your temple, two, three. With each breath, the demons left, the hunger unsated.

"I am not her." You drew the words out of your body, slowly, with great effort. "I will never be." What _she _was…a stronger person, who could wield arms and wear armor, sway the leaders of the realm and fight the Horde, gather the troops, unite Ferelden. What youwere was something different entirely.

And his expression _shattered_ like you were the one who forced a kiss upon him, not the other way around. You knew exactly why then, the answers that eluded you these past few months, with the tower burning down around you - why they had to chain Cullen to the walls to prevent him from throwing himself onto his own sword, why you saw Warin everywhere, why there were rules against the desires of templars for their charges, why youlived_ each day_ the choices you made, the choices you all made, footsteps circling paths in the tower…

--

You wondered before, if you were able to remove Warin's presence from you by wrapping yourself with another person's body. You just did not expect it to be _Cullen_, who kissed you as if he would swallow you whole, as a substitute for someone already gone.

You told him that you were not her and he said _I know_ after a long time has passed. A weary understanding passed between you and him, that you were not what he so desperately needed and you knew he was the wrong templar, that you both _pretended_ so well to not be walking shells of what you used to be. You wanted to tell him _at least she lives_, but you were not cruel.

You left him sitting by the fire. Desire waited for you on your bed, and demanded to know what happened between you and the templar, then cheered herself with the thought that you would reveal it to her eventually. _You always do…_

--

You asked Desire why she wanted you to join her. She inclined her head, thoughtful, and regarded you with those wide, endless eyes. _I wish to live through you, to have a taste of what it's like to be alive. _Her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply, like she could breathe you in, your essence, all of it.

_Taste. _She closed her eyes then, mouth open as if experiencing the greatest ecstasy. _The sweat of another's skin, how they reveal their passions. The sweetness of berries and cream, tender meat roast with sauce and mashed roots…_

_I will become an abomination and then you wouldn't be able to do all of these things, _you interrupted her sharply, to remind her that you were still in your own body here, not her, and that templars stood at each corner, ready.

_Oh I do not doubt, eventually, that is what we will become. _She smiled widely and your warning did not concern her. _But before that time comes I can conjure up many pleasures, and I wish to experience them all, before your mind is gone. _

She reached for you, but you turned and you were running, towards your empty bed and the circular tower.

--

_It is a fragile trust, between templar and mage_, Wynne told you once.

Mages do not envy the templars their vows. And templars do not envy the prison of the tower.

So who is Blessed and who is Cursed?

--

_I charmed a templar once_. You had to crane your neck to look up at her, a violet blur who was doing flips and twists above your head.

_Stop it, _you told her. _You make my head hurt. _

She complied, floating downward, so that her eyes were almost level with yours, but her hooves still did not touch the ground.

_All he wanted was to experience the lust of another's body. _When Desire was in a pleasant mood she told stories about what experiences she had cavorting with human or elven dreams. _So I made it for him. I gave him a candlelit chamber with soft sheets and flower petals. I conjured up an elven girl, like the ones he remembered in his youth, the untouchable ones, who mocked him and flaunted themselves in front of him._

You put your hands over your ears, because none of this ever ended well. Desire's stories always ended with a bloodbath or some sort of carnage. She catered to sensual pleasures, but always brought out the darkest thoughts of the soul.

…_.and he took her roughly and violently and in all the ways he wanted. _She clapped her hands in delight. _And it tasted so good, her fear, his pleasure. _

_But mages like you are the best treats, _she murmured. _You resist so valiantly and it is all the more delicious when you break. A matter of time…_

--

Cullen does not apologize to you for trying to kill you or kiss you. You go about your duties, steps circles upon circles, circles that bind you to the tower, circles that lie: about your safety, the promise that Irving made, about the templars, who were supposed to watch over you instead of love you or hurt you.

Cullen was always watching you now, across the great hall at meals, at practice where he replaced the Knight-Commander from that point on. Those fool templars fell over themselves in an attempt to impress him. You could almost laugh. The red marks on your arms were hidden underneath your robes, unseen until they faded.

It would be so easy to end your life.

You saw possibilities everywhere. You could pretend to be demon-possessed and be cut down. You would step into the fire, and be _cleansed_, like Cullen said. You could hang yourself, like Simeon did. The tower ushered you in a maddening circle and you knew that when mages took their own life, the demons rushed in, and there was already so much death in the tower, soaked into the stones and the essence of it, or simply you were just too timid and too weak.

You writhed under him. Your knight who you drowned in each night, like holding your head below the cold waters of the lake, suffocated and gasping when he released you. Your _bed warmer_, Wynne told you. A warning. That was all it should be. No love should exist here in the tower. Mages who shared each other's beds like sport. Templars who were refused even the simplest expression of their needs. His mouth closed on the most sensitive spot where your neck joined your shoulder, made you moan with the feel of it.

They templars were warned of you and watched you and _the mages are so few in Ferelden_. You were not a child, playing in the river while the sun warmed your skin, while your mother called you her sweet one. You were not with Warin, who brushed away your tears, telling you in all sorts of ways that he loved you, without ever saying it. Those scraps of paper you cherished and burned.

_You hold me without touch. _

Words became cinders in your hands and ashes on your tongue.

_You bind me without chains. _

And you broke, under Cullen's gaze, Desire's demands, Warin's beckoning. Desire laughing in vicious triumph, and you broke, you broke, bound by circles upon circles upon circles, unending, and they led you to this place.


	10. Only yours to give

_And let the world once more see Your favor  
For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
And comfort is only Yours to give."_  
- Canticle of Transfigurations 12:6

--

You sought an audience with Irving that unremarkable evening, armed with a careful speech that would support your cause. You practiced it many times to yourself in your own quarters, repeating it over and over again so that you would not falter.

"Your request?" His hair was even more streaked with grey than when you first entered the tower.

You stood there with your rehearsed speech lost to you. You could not recall a single word that you planned, so you only pleaded, in a voice too high and too young and too desperate to your ears.

"I wish to be made Tranquil."

--

Irving tried reason. How you were needed for the realm, and that he was going to request your aid for the battle against the Archdemon. Greagoir attempted threats. He said that your lapse in your duty was a slight in the eyes of the Maker, that you were doomed to walk forever in oblivion, turned away from his love.

You told them then, after all the speeches and the lectures and the pacing – the truths that they should have been informed of on the first day Desire appeared, gift in hand.

"This is why!" Greagoir snapped at Irving after you were done. "We need greater vigilance. Cullen was right…"

Irving only shook his head to quiet his protests. "I have failed you, child, in my promise to protect you." There was defeat in his voice.

You knew you had won.

--

The ceremony occurred later that day. You remained in the chamber where you had convened with Irving and Greagoir. The senior enchanters were informed and they made the appropriate preparations. A glyph of warding was placed around you as there were spells to cast and runes to enchant. Before the glyph closed you thought you heard Desire tell you - _goodbye, little mage, it's been fun. _

--

The rune was a small thing, sitting in Irving's palm. He asked you once more, outside the wards, if you were ready for this. You nodded your head in confirmation.

You felt it touch your forehead, a cold comfort - you were to be closed from the demons, that you would finally feel safe again, that you would be free from being an abomination, from being a threat to the tower, that you could stop hiding what you were, _ugly and damaged and _–

Stop.

--

Cullen found you days later, after the ritual was complete and you were fully healed from the lyrium's poison. He yelled and yelled and shook you, and you asked him to please unhand you because it hurt.

He came back to you again and again, weeks upon weeks, asking questions you could not answer. You told him that you wanted to be left alone to do your duties, because they were very important even with the death of the Archdemon at the hands of the Grey Wardens and the Blight ended. You told him the number of senior mages in Ferelden only numbered seven now.

_You fool_, _you little fool,_ he said to you repeatedly.

You do not disagree.

--

When he finally asked you a question you could answer, the one that you knew he has been running circles around, and he asked you _why_, you said – _because I chose to. _And he pulled out his sword and commanded you to _watch him_.

You watched. Time passed. A young apprentice came running around the corner, and when he passed you, Cullen grabbed the boy by the neck of his robe. He ran the blade through the boy's body and the boy gurgled, pink foam at his mouth. You saw him bleed. The body dropped to the ground.

You watched, and it was different because the next apprentice was a girl this time. Cullen took her by the hair and sliced open her throat. The spray of blood hit you and it was warm. Cullen was covered in blood too. He looked at your face, as if searching for something.

"I dream of Warin sometimes," he said. "He told me to watch over you."

"That's kind of you," you said to him.

Cullen made a sound that was like the gurgle of the boy's last breath. He hacked at the girl apprentice's body (was her name Alise? Or Ayla? You pondered) until it was unrecognizable.

"Do you care?" He shook his bloodied blade at you. "Tell me you care, and I will stop."

"I cannot do what you ask of me," you replied, and you watched him turn and go.

--

You hummed a tune, something your mum used to sing to you when you were young, then turned from watching to enter the storeroom. He blocked your entrance when he demanded your attention away from your tasks. Those tasks waited patiently, but you couldn't tarry for too long. There was so much to be completed for the First Enchanter.

Now if only that noise in the distance would stop. You needed your utmost concentration.

This was delicate work, after all.


End file.
